


If The Brakeman Turns My Way

by talkaboutspaceships



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Dark, Hallucinations, Hellhound On My Trail, I'm really not great with tags, Kerouac-inspired, M/M, Road Trips, Tennessee - Freeform, The Open Road, Think 'On The Road' but with violent hallucinations, Violence, blues music
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 09:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3285605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkaboutspaceships/pseuds/talkaboutspaceships
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After discovering who he is, Bucky takes a road trip across America to outrun his past and find his future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If The Brakeman Turns My Way

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place after the end credits scene in The Winter Soldier. 
> 
> Feel free to find me on Tumblr as talkaboutspaceships.

_What the hell am I supposed to do now?_  
  
Bucky sat on a plastic chair that was part of the outdoor setup of a cafe nestled in a busier part of the city. He didn't bother observing the name of the cafe, nor the streets he wandered down aimlessly until finally he stopped to sit. He didn't even know why he made the decision to stop and sit, his body must have chose while his mind was busy repeating the same question. _What the hell am I supposed to do now?_   
  
He had exited the Smithsonian a few hours earlier, where he wandered through an exhibit of a life he was apparently part of. The museum even had a small display dedicated to a man named James Buchanan Barnes, a man who wore a softer, younger version of his face. _So my name is James_ , he thought to himself. No, that didn't sound right. _Bucky_. That was the name that sparked something inside him. The name 'Captain America' had called him, with the expectation of some recognition. _So my name was Bucky. Well, it's not anymore. So what the hell am I supposed to do now?_  
  
He sat, loitered, in the red plastic chair and observed the people walking by. The more conscious he became of his surroundings, the more severe his sense of alienation grew. The men and women who walked by him, he wasn't like them. His blood was not the blood that ran through their veins, his mind was not conditioned like theirs. The men and women who passed were human. He wasn't. He felt like he was a mistake, an abnormality, a stain upon the image of mankind. _I don't belong here. There is no place for a thing like me. What the hell am I supposed to do now?_  
  
Until the sun began to set, he wandered the streets of the city. No destination, there couldn't be a destination, there wasn't a place in the world for him. Surely, the man who was donned the ostentatious name of 'Captain America' knew him, would happily take him in. Bucky had been following him for close to a month, though he never made contact, he knew where the blonde man lived, where he frequented, where he had planned to go. He’d be easy enough to find within the day. However, Steve Rogers would be happy to see to him only to reconcile with a friend he once lost, and Bucky wasn't that friend. Whoever the sidekick of 'Captain America' was, that man had died many years ago. I don't know who I am, but I am not him.   
  
_Where could I go?_ Washington was foreign to him, but when he considered it, the whole damn world was foreign to him. Sure, he had been to hundreds of cities, all over the world, and if he tried to remember, he was sure he’d be able to navigate them easily. But he didn’t want to remember. Memories were on his list of enemies, there were sins in his past and dwelling too long on a single thought would open the door a flood of flashbacks. Flashbacks of blood, fire, gunpowder. Over the past month, fragments of scenes from his life would creep into his mind, followed by a sense of fear that would begin to envelope him like a dark shadow. _So not now, I don't want to remember. What the hell do I do now?_

_I could go, I guess. I could just run._

It was an option. He wouldn’t need a destination. His past, his demons were chasing him, if he ran fast enough, further enough, perhaps he could outrun them. He could outrun the fear whose breath he could feel against his neck, outrun the darkness that was rushing the wind against his back. Hell, you could outrun anything on an empty highway, and if the world won't take you, the open road will. It led to anywhere and nowhere, a concrete liberation for anyone with a desolate soul, for eras it’s promise of ‘no yesterdays’ baited those who found themselves broken and in despair. Perhaps there would be no tomorrows, either, if he set out. Just the road, just moving. Nothing behind him, nothing in front. Bucky felt his life held no purpose now. He was an expendable piece of machinery who now found himself dysfunctional, broken wires connected to broken ports, nothing to his name but a list of crimes. He still probably held value to the men who tore him apart and reconstructed him, they were probably still searching for him, but he wasn’t foolish enough to go back to their grasp. He felt he deserved punishment for the things he had done, and one day he would pay dearly for his sins, but not under their watch. He deserved to suffer, they didn’t deserve to witness it. In his mind nagged the thought of Steve, but Bucky had to convince himself that man lost his friend in another age. The road could take him, his life, the rest of his days, however many of those there were. He would be glad to give it.

Anywhere and nowhere, he decided. _That’s where I want to go._  

He didn't have a penny to his name, so when it came to a mode of transportation, his only option was to steal. Though he was reluctant to add another crime to his ledger, this wasn't a mission. This was survival. Not entirely justifiable, but what other choice did he have? He would pay for this crime one day, too, he figured. When the time came. As the night grew dark and the city grew quiet, he found his victim in an alley between two brownstone apartments. It was almost too perfect, some asshole left his keys in the ignition, Bucky figured the owner’s stupidity almost rationalized what he was doing. He mounted the motorcycle, Harley Davidson, black, a little old and roughly used but well taken care of. Within half an hour, he was headed north.

Nightfall had fallen, he took small highways that followed the Potomac river, letting the road guide him. He passed through towns, mindless to their happenings, intent on driving until he couldn’t. When he drove through wooded areas, the only illumination was the moon, the only breaks in darkness were his headlights, or those of other cars, reflected on the highway signs that would appear, then disappear, appear, disappear. The only sound was his engine, with something serene in it’s purr. He drove all night, steady, nothing but the road in front of him, straight, into an unknown darkness that could hold nothing scarier than what lay in his past.

The next morning, he wandered through a Walmart and pocketed some food, unrepentant. It was still a crime but these major corporations wouldn’t miss a few dollars here and there. In another department store in another town, he jimmied open a till and stole a few hundred dollars. There were memories in his muscles that helped him be quick and inconspicuous. _I must have done this before._

He drove through Pennsylvania, following a different river on a highway that drove through state parks. The sky was illuminated with sunlight, the trees vibrant with lush greens. Anyone else would have found find it breathtaking. But Bucky was intent to focusing on the road. Attempting to appreciate it would be futile, anyway. He couldn’t feel things, he concluded, not good things, at least. _Just keep going_.

He spent a few days wandering the northeastern states until he decided that all this aimless driving was ludicrous and tiresome. Or maybe it was just a couple days. Or maybe it was a week? He lost track of time completely, his recollection of his trip so far a complete blur. He was mindless, depressed, driving around in a dazed state. What the hell am I even doing?

Deciding he needed some sort of plan, he checked into a cheap motel in god knows where and used the shelter and quiet to figure out his situation. He sat on the bed, palms pressed against his eyes, and thought.

_Where the fuck do I go? Um, west? I should go west. Get the hell out of these parts. What’s west.. desert? Desert would be good. Quiet. Just.. air and sand and rocks and shit. Yeah, southwest. What would that be, Arizona? Ok, Arizona, like Grand Canyon and-_

Something sparked inside him. Grand Canyon. That was familiar. Grand Canyon, Grand Canyon. He repeated the name in his head, there was something there..

He was in an apartment in Brooklyn, all the windows were open, the air was hot and humid. It was clearly long ago, he was younger.

“I don’t know, Steve,” he said to a smaller Captain America, who laid on the couch. “Some asshole at work said it was just a big hole in the ground. I think he’s full of shit. I want to see it, goddamn, before the day I die, I want to see-”

_NO_! No memories. _I don’t want to go there. I don’t care. I don’t want to know._

He was in Germany now? Still younger, he was in a camp in a forest. There was a war, everyone was wearing uniforms. He walked alongside a much bigger Steve Rogers.

“No, I’m telling you. First thing we do when we get back, we’re seeing that damn hole in the ground. We’re gonna win this war, hop in a car, and then it’s you and me, man, I’m gonna finally see the Gra-”

_STOP_ , he ordered his mind. _NO_. Bucky sighed angrily. He threw a pillow across the room and marched over to the bathroom.

He leaned down over the sink, his palms filled with cold water as he brought them to his face. He stood back up looked into the mirror. _Oh god_. His reflection.. it wasn't him. It was his face, but as Bucky's expression turned to horror, his reflection glared back at him with a wide, sinister smile, an eeriness in it's eyes. It's metal hand was raised with a gun pointing right at him.

Bucky gasped in terror and ran out of the room. He peered back at the mirror, now normal, reflecting his real eyes that were wide with fear.

_Fuck. Screw this. I gotta get out of here. West. Sure, Grand fucking Canyon._

He ran out of the motel room, hopped on the bike, and started to drive.

His mind was frenzied as he drove, he lost track of time again. Hours or days, maybe. Eventually, he found himself close to where he started from, and as the sun started to set, he entered Virginia, his spirit now a little calmer after the long drive. Deprived of sleep, his body demanded rest, so he drove somewhere into George Washington National Forest, and slept among the trees.

When dawn broke, he headed east a little to find his way to the I-81. He stole some food from a grocery mart in Harrisburg, and mindlessly followed signs that led to access to the Shenandoah River. It wasn't a conscious decision, his body was just leading the way. He didn’t care, as long as he kept going further away from the man in the mirror. Additionally, he was growing to enjoy following rivers. They were calming, Bucky noticed his thoughts would wash away if he just concentrated on sounds of rushing waters. There was also almost a redemptive, purifying quality about them, he sometimes wondered if he just lay himself in a river, would it just wash him away, wash the ugliness, the anguish, the remnants, if there were any, of the soul he once possessed? Rivers, like the road, held no rejection. Maybe one day, he thought, when he just can’t go any further, he’ll just give himself to a river.

When he reached the end of a dirt path he was following, he parked the bike and followed a trail to a bank by the water, keeping his head downcast as he often did, until his feet were inches from the water. He looked up and was suddenly surprised at the view before him. A blend of soft pastel colours illuminated the morning sky, contrasted by the vibrant palette of greens of the trees that stood peacefully by the river’s edge. Everything was still, everything but the Shenandoah, whose waters flowed with placidity.

_I think this is the first beautiful thing I've seen_ , he observed. It was, at least, the first beautiful thing he allowed himself to appreciate.

It was small, but it was _something_. He felt _something_. He hoped it would last, maybe feeling more would make him human again, but immediately a wave of guilt overcame him. He really didn't deserve to see this, to appreciate this. He wasn’t worthy to be a part of this moment, he was too ugly to be amidst something so lovely. He was a stain upon the picturesque image that was before him. He felt ashamed, gross.

Yet, he also felt defiant. There were men who made him this way. Ugly, a weapon. _I bet they wouldn't want me to see this_. They deprived him of these moments. _They'd hate to see me here_. He took pleasure in that, in imagining their anger in what he was doing. He let the guilt linger, accepted it, but still stood against the edge of the water, and mentally said to those men, ' _Fuck you. This is beautiful_.'

He spent a few more moments in the stillness, letting his feelings fight amongst themselves while he decided to stay in awe of his surroundings. He embraced the solitude. No one would find him here and that comforted him. _Solitude_ , the word repeated in his head. Maybe this was what he needed. Maybe this was his future, stay off the grid, away from the world. Hydra wouldn't find him, 'Captain America' wouldn't find him. Maybe he could spend the rest of his miserable life all to himself. Maybe he could spend the rest of his days in this spot, let nature take the remainder of his life, die here. It wouldn't be bad way to go.

Moments became minutes, minutes became hours. It was some time in the early afternoon when he sat against a tree and shut his eyes, let his body rest.

He wasn't sure if he actually slept, or just zoned out. He wasn't sure how much time had elapsed since he shut his eyes, a couple minutes or hours. The sun still blazed in the sky when he reopened his eyes, they had to adjust to the light. He became conscious of something sticky covering human hand, the glove on his metal one, too. He looked down. Blood. Fresh, his hands were drenched in it. _Oh god_. Oh god, oh god, what had he done? He jolted into a standing position, his heart pounding, his eyes widened. _What have I done?_! He scanned his surroundings, everything was as he left it. It was no longer quiet, though, there were whispers coming from the woods, all around him, whispers, something sinister in their sound. _They found me, oh god, they found me_. His head began to spin, he pressed his eyes closed and clutched his now aching head. The whispers abruptly stopped. He opened his eyes and examined his hands. They were clean. Not a drop of red.

_I need to get out of here._

Back at his bike, he was still shaking. On the road, he considered his situation. He was a fucked up mess. His mind was playing tricks on him, he wouldn't able to escape that. _Is this the way I was programmed? Is this my deterioration?_

He watched the road in front of him. _What the hell am I doing?_

_I could go see Steve. No- no! Maybe he could help me- no! Stop thinking. Keep driving, just keep fucking driving. Maybe if I just talked to him- stop! Maybe Hydra will find me. Do they want to kill me? Maybe I should let someone kill- just keep going, you idiot. Keep going. Grand Canyon._

Once again, the drive helped him to calm down. He followed the Blue Ridge Parkway to Tennessee, being careful not to feel too much admiration for the Appalachian Mountains that he passed. He became scared of his emotions, indulging too much in one feeling might trigger something he couldn't handle. Still, the drive was beautiful.  Leaves of various colours painted the landscape, trees covered the earth as far as the eye could see, mountains silhouetted in blues carved themselves into the horizon.   _Steve would love to draw these_ , he thought at one point in his drive, then dismissing sudden notion. _I wonder if this is the America he fights for._

After the road ended in North Carolina, he headed west to Tennessee. In small towns, men with dirty shirts and sunken faces sat on porches and watched time go by, Bucky wondered if they too were trying to kill off the rest of their purposeless days. Church signs stated the things God liked and that things God didn't like, bars with no names advertised whiskey and beer, strip malls with empty parking lots tried to hide their air of desolation with signs covered in tacky multicoloured guitars.

He was on a highway somewhere in the middle of the state, the road was sharply bending through a thick, wooded area. As he turned a curve, he suddenly saw a bullet-ridden man, clothes drenched in blood, flesh pale as a ghost's, standing still in the middle of the road, his head leaning sideways, his eyes fixated straight. Instinctively, Bucky swerved to the right to avoid him, until he lost control of his vehicle and had no choice to watch himself drive deeper into the woods until he finally crashed.

When he opened his eyes, it was dusk. His head pounding in pain, he struggled to get on his feet. His human hand was full of scratches, he touched his forehead and felt an open wound, sticky with blood. _Great_.

He staggered over the bike, which was still impressively intact, all except for the bike seat, which had fallen off revealing a shallow compartment in its place. Beside the newly discovered hideaway lay a couple of it's former contents, only three things, a book, a pen, and a wallet. _Really, all this time_? He felt a pang of guilt picking up the wallet, he had already taken enough from this guy, but, he supposed, it was too late for remorse. It was pretty bare, only holding some cash and very worn vintage photo. He counted the money, a hundred and thirty seven dollars. Good. He took a quick glance at the photo, some lady, and was about to toss it aside when _wait. Wait_. He examined the photo closely. _I know her? I know her. I think I know her._ He stared at her, studied her. _I know her. Come on, come on, who is she?_ Nothing came to him. He returned the photo to the wallet, pocketed both, and flipped through the book. It was a sketchbook, filled with miscellaneous drawings, the New York skyline, a coffee mug upon a stained table, a woman in a black dress and cropped hair, a spider and a set of wings. The book was small enough to fit in a pocket on the inside of his jacket, he placed it there, and snapped the seat back over the compartment. The bike was still functional, _good_ , so he considered heading back on the road. However, the sky was close to black and his body was aching from the crash so he decided, _fuck it_ , sat against a tree, and slept.

The following morning, he drove into Memphis. Out of curiosity, he followed signs to an area called Beale Street, parked the bike and walked under unlit neon signs in the shapes of guitar necks over bars that dedicated their aesthetics to an era when blues music was at it's peak. The world had evolved into an interesting place while he was frozen. _I missed some good music apparently._ He was intrigued by the sounds he heard playing on the speakers by the open windows of the restaurants. The songs were sung by mournful voices, yet they were filled with soul, Bucky could hear the pain of the artists through the guitar chords, as if their agony flowed out through their fingertips and translated into noise as they touched the strings. He leaned by the door of the one of the bars and just listened for a while.

He wandered over to a grassy area between two restaurants, where a small stage was partly erected, probably in preparation for the evening. On its stairs, an elderly man sat with his with his guitar, his eyes near closed as his fingers moved up and down the guitar's neck, his voice full of intensity as he sang.

_I got to keep movin' I got to keep movin'_   
_Blues fallin' down like hail_   
_Blues fallin' down like hail_

Bucky sat and watched the man pour his soul into every word.

_And the days keeps on worryin' me, there's a hellhound on my trail_   
_Hellhound on my trail_   
_Hellhound on my trail_

There was something beautiful in the song, and Bucky felt no hesitancy to enjoy it, because the music was speaking to him, it knew him. It saw right inside of him and took the remains of what shattered pieces of a soul was left and it translated those pieces into notes, into sounds, into something actually beautiful. The man's voice pulled at things buried deep inside Bucky, pain, sorrow, desire, strength, anger, despair, will. It scared Bucky a little, how easily the song evoked things inside him he had been trying to hard to bury, but as the notes kept playing, the fear subsided into a sense of comfort. As the man continued to sing, the monsters seemed smaller and smaller.

_You sprinkled hot foot powder around my door_   
_All around my door_   
_You sprinkled hot foot powder_   
_All around your daddy's door_   
_It keep me with ramblin' mind rider_   
_Every old place I go_   
_Every old place I go_

He took out a few bills and tossed them into the open guitar case that laid at the musician's feet. He muttered, "That was pretty good."

Bucky suddenly realized this was the first time he had spoken to someone in his entire trip.

"Naw, naw!" The musician held up his hand. "I'm just playin' my guitar, man, what I do, I'm just playin' my guitar."

"Ok." Bucky's voice was low and gruff, he had almost forgotten what it sounded like out loud. He nodded toward the guitar and asked, "What was that?"

"Aw, the song, man? That was me tryin'a conjure up one of the greats! I dunno what I'm doin', man, I failed that one. I tried, man. I always said, always said, I'll sell my soul to the devil to play like him, man, but I dunno. Devil don't want me. Makes sense. No one wants me, devil don't want me. You know, man?"

_Yeah, I know._

"Well, I liked it." Bucky disliked how all his words came out sounding so stiff, he wished he could say more, but the words weren't coming to him.

"Aw, well, thanks, man! Where you from, man? I can tell, I can tell that look, man, I can tell, you not from here. Naw, man, passin' through?"

"Yeah."

"Boy, I know that. I can see it in your eyes, man. You on the road, I know that. I've been running around long time in my life. Runnin' around. Looking, you know?"

Bucky knew. The musician was a peculiar man, possibly a little drunk, but Bucky was enjoying listening to him.

"You ever find what you were looking for?"

"Yeah, yeah. Took me a long time. Found it too late. I lost a lot, my fault, really. I was dumb, thought I knew where to look. Turns out I was looking for the same thing I was running from. I like to stay around these parts now, go down the 61, I listen to the sounds, go down to the river sometimes. You know, the Mississippi? You ever see the river? I know you ain't. Cause you ain't ever been here before, huh?"

Bucky shook his head.

"I can tell. You look a little out of place, son. You also carrying a lot. I can tell. Lemme give you some advice. Go to the river, man. Wash that off. So where you from, man? Aren't you hot, in that jacket? Looks like you lost a glove there. Tell me, man, where you running to?"

"West."

"West's a good place to go. Where's home?"

"I don't have a home."

"Yeah, you do, boy. It's what you're running from."

So Bucky headed south. The 61. He liked rivers, anyway. He stopped in Clarksdale, a quiet rustic town that faithfully preserved the era of delta blues. He felt a fondness for the place and determined that if he didn't make it to the desert, here would good enough to lay low. He passed a rusted standalone building, now advertising itself as a blues club though it was clearly something different in its past, and made a mental note to return there one day, possibly, if he could, on an evening when they had live music. It was a romantic idea to him, an old bar, sitting in the corner, just listening to the songs of this place.

By the late afternoon, he was at the river. He stood on it's bank, in perfect solitude, the sky blue, the air completely still, nothing within his sight stirred except the water gently lapping by his feet.

He took off his jacket, then his shirt underneath, his glove, his shoes, his pants. He wasn't sure if the sun had ever seen his scar-ridden, marred body before. He took a deep breath, exhaling his hesitation, before wading into the river, deeper and deeper, until his feet could no longer touch the ground and he was swimming. He immediately understood what the musician was talking about, why he came here. The water.. it felt.. cleansing, in a sense. Soft, gentle, it was embracing him, touching him. He submerged himself in it, feeling the water against every inch of his skin. The river made him feel something, something foreign.. it made him feel.. almost _alive_.

Letting the sun dry him as he sat back upon the ground, Bucky took the sketchbook and pen out of his jacket. He contemplated for moment whether or not this was a stupid idea, but it had been a strange day, he went for it anyway. He started to sketch the river, his image turned out rough, sloppy and childlike, but he continued. He drew the man back in Memphis, the mountains that he passed. He was gradually became fervent in his art, using the pen to express the energy trapped inside him. For a moment, things seemed.. better. He felt almost human, almost.. hopeful.

* _drip_ * A drop of blood fell on the open page of the sketchbook. He went to feel his face, nose, mouth, nothing. He looked up. Nothing. * _drip_ * Another drop on the paper. He tossed the book aside and looked around. * _drip_ * Now one fell on his face. _What the hell?_

In the water, a severed arm emerged to the surface. Then a severed leg, then a torso, then fingers, eyeballs, scalps. Within seconds, the river was flowing red with blood, body parts cluttered on its surface.

A wave of nausea came over him, he became dizzy, threw his clothes back on and rushed for the bike.

Over the next few days, the hallucinations became more frequent. Bucky was no longer able to brush them off and run away from them. Spiders emerged from the spout of a sink as he washed his hands. In a truck stop diner, a severed finger floated in his coffee. On the side of the highway lay a naked man with his skin flayed, his face following Bucky as he drove by. In a bathroom stall of a rest area, blood began to drip down the tiled wall. The letters on a highway distance sign melted as he passed by.

_Fuck. Fuck_. He couldn't go on like this. _What the hell do I do now?_  The things he was trying to outrun, they were starting to catch up.

In Oklahoma, now weary and anxious, he checked into a cheap motel for the night. Sitting on the bed, he began to flick channels on the outdated tv. An infomercial asked, "Do you feel like you're losing your mind?" * _flick_ * "I think you're going crazy!" a sitcom wife yelled to her husband. * _flick_ * "It's like I'm falling apart!" A crying woman in a drama exclaimed. * _flick_ * "You deserve to die," a detective sneered at a handcuffed criminal. * _flick_ * "We-"  * _flick_ * "Are-" * _flick_ * "Coming-" * _flick_ * "For-" * _flick_ * "You-" * _click_ * He turned the tv off.

Bucky sighed in anger. Just leave me alone. Suddenly, the room began to spin, his head began to pound, harder and harder, he couldn't breathe. Panic gripped him. He didn't understand the sudden terror that was consuming him. _What's happening, what's happening?!_ He clutched his hair and shut his eyes. He tried to stand and immediately fell to his knees. His blood turned to lava, his skin was itching, he suddenly felt a strong desire to escape his body, to just cut himself open and be free of his hell. He screamed in anguish.

The mental barrier against his past which he had worked so hard to build was broken.

He was in an apartment, grey, drab, somewhere in Moscow. An older man was before him, on his knees, crying and pleading, "Please, please! My children, my children!" Bucky raised his gun and shot him between the eyes. A woman behind him screamed in terror, he turned and shot her, too. A dark wooded area, France. Rain was rushing down as he dug a shallow hole in the earth, rolled a young man's body into it with his foot, and refilled the grave with dirt. A grandiose villa in Italy with large windows overlooking the water, midday, the sun shining, he crept up behind his victim and sliced his throat with a serrated blade. An alleyway in London, he lifted a man by throat with his metal hand, watched the fear in his eyes turn to defeat, and clenched his metal fist until he felt a snap. Brooklyn, 1940, summertime. A humble apartment, windows open, the air humid. He was in a kitchen, drying dishes. "Bucky?" a voiced called from the other room. "You don't have to do that, you know? Just put them down."

Bucky's eyes flew open, he found himself with his back on the floor of the motel, gasping for air. Fragments of memories flashed into his consciousness, as though someone was changing the channels in his mind. He pressed his palms against his eyes and began to sob. _No, not now. I don't want this. Please._

Powerless against the memories that were consuming his mind, he stumbled onto the bed and curled up into a fetal position. For the rest of the long night, he cried.

He didn't sleep. Has he ever slept? _What's fucking real anymore? What have I done? What the hell do I do now?_

Hopeless. Crazy. Broken. He had nothing, he was nothing. _Kill me_ , he requested. There was no one to grant it. _I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be alive. Maybe I'm dead. Maybe I'm in hell._

_What the hell do I do now?_

_Go home._

_I don't have a home._

"Yeah, you do, boy. It's what you're running from."

_Shit._

_I need help. I can't do this._

_What have I been looking for? What have I been doing?_

_I gotta find Steve._

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction, so bear with me here. I attempted to go for something very Kerouac-inspired, I hope you've enjoyed the first chapter. Comments and critiques are very much appreciated as I'm pretty new at this. Thank you so much for reading. As I mentioned earlier, feel free to find me on Tumblr as talkaboutspaceships.
> 
> Music referenced in this fic -
> 
> If The Brakeman Turns My Way - Bright Eyes  
> Country Roads, Take Me Home - John Denver  
> Hellhound On My Trail - Robert Johnson


End file.
